The Grand Tour
by Garonne
Summary: AU: Holmes and Watson spend the hiatus travelling around the world in disguise. High jinks and adventures ensue. Reflekshun's 100 prompts challenge. Not slash.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Grand Tour  
>Author: Garonne<p>

Thanks to Reflekshun for the prompts: 'form' and then 'write'

Note: I've written poor Mary out of existence for this one – I didn't want Watson to spend the whole story in mourning! Hence the reason for Watson still living in Baker Street during the events of The Final Problem.

.. .. ..

As a young doctor I was involved in a campaign against the wearing of heavy black crape mourning veils, not only due to the respiratory problems and catarrhal diseases that arose from breathing through the heavy cloth for such a long period, but also because of the cases of blindness and cataract of the eye many of my colleagues believed to be correlated with the practice. We were well-meaning and our concerns well-founded.

Later, however, when I returned alone from Switzerland and sat, numb, in our sitting room in Baker Street, I understood why none of the ladies whom we addressed had cared to listen. What did trifles like the health of one's eyes matter, when one felt as though the entire world were painted in shades of grey? Was it not even fitting that the body should reflect the suffering of the spirit?

The news of Holmes' death was all over the papers, of course, but everyone in the country seemed to be avid for a more detailed account. Everywhere I turned, I was overwhelmed with a barrage of eager, inconsiderate questions, as though I had been some objective and detached chronicler of Holmes' exploits, instead of his only friend. My agent wrote several times to suggest my writing up the case immediately, as did the editor of _The Strand_. I longed for the protective walls of mourning garb, so that unthinking people should be dissuaded from tormenting me, but Holmes was no brother of mine and society's forms dictated otherwise.

As it was, I laid off my black cravat after the memorial service and removed the weeds from my hat. I ordered reams of black-edged paper and replied to a small selection of the inquiry cards and letters of condolences that had been flooding into Baker Street, as befitted my role as Holmes' biographer and, if I am honest, erstwhile secretary. If I had been vaguely hoping to find catharsis in the task, I had been mistaken. I soon abandoned it and threw myself into the medical practice I had so long neglected. Indeed, I found a peculiar solace in the mind-numbing parade of gout, bed-sores and diphtheria.

Eventually Mrs Hudson took the black crape off the front door. I transferred the remainder of my belongings to the rooms above my practice in Paddington, where indeed I had been practically living since Holmes' death. Baker Street was entirely too silent and haunted.

Almost a year had passed thus, my days filled with work and my evenings spent alone in the midst of acquaintances at my club, when one morning's post brought me a letter I still keep among my mementos to this day.

Even before I knew its contents, the letter's external appearance caught my eye. The brightly coloured stamp was partially obscured by a postmark in an ornate and indecipherable script. The address was written in a copperplate painfully similar to Holmes' hand, but I had long grown accustomed to anything and everything calling him to mind. I turned the letter over, but there was no return address.

The envelope contained a single sheet of plain writing paper, with the message:

_Kindly take the Leith-Oslo steamer on Tuesday the 9th of August. Sincerely yours, Sigerson._

I let the missive fall to the breakfast table, my throat constricting in anger and disgust. It was not the first time someone had written to me pretending to be Holmes returned from the dead, and usually the letters were as foolish as they were painful.

This one, however, gave me pause for thought once my first flare of anger had faded. How many people in the world knew that Sigerson was the name of Holmes' maternal grandfather and a pseudonym he had often used in the past? Like many other details of his cases, I had omitted it from the accounts which appeared in _The Strand_. Indeed to do otherwise would have defeated its purpose.

My gaze fell to the letter once more. Suddenly, I saw that what first I had taken for a smudge, just after the signature, was in fact a fingerprint. My heart skipped a beat and I snatched up the letter to examine it more closely. Holmes had often demonstrated the utility of fingerprints to me, and their unique nature. Why would the author of the note have placed a fingerprint after his signature, if not to prove that he was indeed "Sigerson"?

I found that I was clutching the sheet of paper so tightly I had crumpled and almost torn it. I smoothed it out, my mind filled with one sole, overwhelming thought: no body had ever been found downstream from the falls of Reichenbach. Surely, somewhere among his archives, Holmes had his own fingerprints on file?

As soon as I could liberate myself from my patients that morning, I hurried to Baker Street and let myself in with the key I still always carried. The sitting room upstairs was dark and airless, mounds of Holmes' belongings lying just as he had left them, all shrouded in dustsheets. Under normal circumstances the mausoleum-like air of the room would have cut me to the quick, but today I was too impatient to even pause and look around. I threw open the shutters before hurrying to the corner where Holmes' files were stored. Tearing aside the dustsheets, I began to pull out every dossier I could find under the letter F. Obscure information on frigates and flaxseed oil lay among notes on the Lord Farnham case and opportunities for foul play in forges and foundries. Many of the documents stirred old memories in me and within my heart, reawakening grief warred with new hope. I was too impatient to linger over anything, however, too desperate to know the truth. Could it possibly be Holmes himself who had written to me? Was he really on his way to Oslo to meet me there?

Holmes' archives were well-organised and I soon found what I sought: a thick sheet of bond paper covered with a series of fingerprints in ink, soot, blood and other media, all of the same finger. Additional details were written in Holmes' hand beside each print and at the foot of the sheet was the date, some five years previously.

With trembling hands I held this document up to the light, side by side with the letter. The fingerprints matched.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Their Grand Tour

Author: Garonne

Previous chapter: Watson has been summoned to Oslo by the mysterious 'Sigerson', a pseudonym Holmes often used before his death...

Thanks to Reflekshun for the prompts: 'bag', 'rough', 'dog' and 'merchant'

.. .. .. ..

I spent the final few hours of our approach to Oslo sitting in my cabin with my suitcase already packed, my throat and chest painfully tight with anticipation and my thoughts continually wandering away from the magazine that lay open on my lap. I could only concentrate on one thing: the idea that in a matter of hours this uncertainty would finally be dispelled from my mind, one way or the other. I would know whether Holmes still lived.

I was one of the first to form a queue to disembark, long before our ship was tied up by the quayside. I went through the necessary formalities, giving them only half my attention. When finally I set foot on Norwegian soil, however, my baggage chalked by customs and my passport tucked back into my inside pocket, I realised I had no idea how I planned to proceed next.

The waterside was a chaotic jumble of noise and smells. Ships' horns boomed over the gentler sounds of metal rigging clinking in the wind. The giant dockside machinery groaned as the ships' cargoes were unloaded. I found a place to stand a little to one side, whence I could scan the crowd of people there to meet the ferry. Norwegian bourgeoisie mingled with port officials and sailors, governesses shepherded their children with sharp cries and old ladies fussed over their suitcases and fumbled in their purses for coins for the porter. None of them seemed likely to be Holmes in disguise.

Then my eye was caught by a long-limbed, rangy-figured man lounging against the wall of a fisheries office, slouching as though to disguise his height. His face was scarred and his appearance rough, but in his hollow cheeks and bright eyes I instantly caught the echo of my friend.

"Sigerson!" I exclaimed, unable to keep the joy from my voice as I hurried up to him.

The man straightened to his full height, his somnolent expression turning into a scowl at the sight of my beaming face. He growled at me in Norwegian. My smile faltered, for it had suddenly occurred to me that if Holmes were in disguise, it was certainly for a reason. There must be some danger of which I was unaware, and like a fool I was drawing unwanted attention to us.

"I'm sorry, Holmes," I said in a low voice, stepping closer to him. "I wasn't sure what to expect - "

He backed away, barking something which sounded undeniably angry. Within moments we were at the centre of a large crowd. The entire harbour's supply of loungers and scroungers seemed to be assembling to enjoy the spectacle. I was beset on all sides. One man appeared to be offering to help me and another was shouting him down, while a third man tried to sell me a box of pocket handkerchiefs or a booklet of bus tickets from his pedlar's tray. The man I had first accosted was still glowering at me and I wondered how I could ever have mistaken him for Holmes. I began to wish I had spent the interminable hours on the boat studying Norwegian instead of anticipating the coming reunion.

After a few minutes I realised the crowd was beginning to clear on one side of me, thanks to, as it transpired, a gentleman with round, horn-rimmed spectacles and the air of a retired policeman or middling civil servant. He had evidently been out walking the terrier he held on a lead, and from the tone of his voice I was quite sure that he was saying, "Here now! What's all this then?"

He reached me at the centre of the crowd and I held up my hands to protest my innocence. "I'm terribly sorry to have caused any trouble. I simply mistook the gentleman here for someone else."

Fortunately, the man turned out to have a reasonable grasp of English. "I'm sure we can sort this out," he said, turning back to harangue the crowd.

Within minutes his authoritative manner had dispersed the majority of my harassers.

"All right now?" he said, turning back to me and brushing fussily at my coat, which had suffered from being buffeted from all sides. "Be careful of your suitcase there."

"That was extremely kind of you, sir," I said. "I was quite lost - I don't know how to thank you."

"No need for that, Watson," the man said quietly, in Holmes' voice and accent.

I am not ashamed to admit that I was so shocked my legs began to tremble. Once, I had become almost blasé about Holmes' dramatic transformations, so often had I seen them, but that was before I had gone a year believing I would never be treated to the sight again.

"I'm glad you could make it, old chap," he said softly, not looking at me but rather turning to whistle to his dog. "I'm afraid I have lured you into rather more danger than I had anticipated, however. Do not betray us by any unwary sign, but wait until we meet again."

With that he raised his voice to utter a few more protests against my thanks, before hurrying away.

The attention of the crowd was no longer on me. The third-class passengers were now streaming past and the unloading of the ship's cargo had begun in earnest. For a few moments I stood staring after Holmes, until the memory popped into my head of the way he had insisted on brushing down my coat. I stepped discreetly behind a pile of crates and, as I had suspected, found a note tucked into my breast pocket.

_Bekkevolds Skjenkestue, Skippergata 3, 8 o'clock tonight. Ask for Nilsen._

.. .. ..

At eight o'clock that evening I was ushered into a small private parlour at the back of Bekkevolds Skjenkestue, a quiet public house not far from the harbour. Seated at the only table was a white-haired, well-dressed gentleman of advanced years, peering through thick eye-glasses at a Norwegian newspaper. He gestured me into a seat and dismissed the waiter.

A bottle of sherry and two glasses already stood on the table. The elderly man sat up straighter, removed his spectacles and there, of course, sat Holmes.

"I trust you didn't have any problems finding your way here?" he said.

I thought back over my afternoon of wandering around Oslo's harbour area, hoping to stumble across a bookshop or other map-selling shop among the taverns and boarding houses, all the while trying not to draw too much attention to myself. "Not really, no. I haven't eaten all day, though."

"I have ordered Beef Bourguignon," he said, folding up his newspaper and laying it aside. "Will you take a glass of sherry in the meantime?"

We might for all the world have been sitting in Simpson's on the Strand. For some reason it was unsettling to find he still remembered my tastes. For a second, I had felt as though we were meeting for the first time all over again. Indeed, the man I had once thought I knew was difficult to reconcile with the man who had left me to grieve for one long year. I pushed that thought aside to worry about later and looked up at Holmes.

By the light of the gas-lamp I could see he was even gaunter than before. His eyes were rimmed with shadows more pronounced than I had ever seen on him.

"You have quite an extensive collection of eye-glasses," I said, looking at the pair lying on top of his newspaper.

He had been pouring the sherry, but his gaze flickered briefly up to meet mine. "I expected you to be somewhat angrier," he said dryly, pushing a glass across the table towards me.

"If I was, I got over that on the journey."

I could almost see the word 'if' hovering in the air between us. My statement had not been entirely truthful, but I did not want to press the matter, not tonight. I was a doctor, after all, and I knew better than to poke at an open wound. Holmes, on the other hand, had always been a past master at that, but to my surprise he dropped the matter. Perhaps dying had taught him wisdom.

"As I said at the harbour, I'm afraid I have called you into a situation of more danger than I anticipated. My selfish wish for your companionship may have caused me to act too hastily."

It occurred to me that those of his actions he considered selfish might not coincide with those I saw as being so. I had already resolved that tonight was not the time to discuss that, however.

Holmes paused while the waiter came back with two steaming plates of beef stew. Once we were alone again, he resumed:

"It will be some time yet before I can return to England. From a distance, through my brother's agency, I am organising a coup which will finally destroy the remnants of Moriarty's organisation. But that will take time. Meanwhile, how much of Europe have you seen?"

He glanced up at me, and for a moment I thought I saw a rare flicker of apprehension in his eyes. Then it was replaced by amusement when he read the bewilderment in my own expression.

"Just a little idea of mine," he explained. "I was thinking we might pass the time on the traditional Grand Tour of Europe, as practiced by young bachelors with a surplus of time and money. I believe we both missed out on it as young men."

"I see," I said in a noncommittal voice.

I spent the rest of the meal mostly eating in silence, while Holmes spoke, outlining the plans he had made, the places we would visit and the sights we would see.

"And this danger you mentioned?" I asked at the end of the meal.

He frowned. "Perhaps a year of being on the run has caused me to be more paranoid than I ought to be. We shall have to travel in disguise, that's all."

I felt a vague uneasiness in the pit of my stomach. "I am no master of disguise, Holmes."

"I have every confidence in you." He pushed away his plate and stood up. "I have taken a room for you in a small hotel on this street. Here is the address. In the wardrobe there you'll find everything you need to pass as the sales representative of a Paisley textiles company." He glanced at my luggage, which stood in the corner of the room. "You'll have to abandon that expensive suitcase, I'm afraid."

For a moment I expected a comment about how well my practice must have flourished in his absence, for such was the conclusion he must surely have drawn from the smart leather case to which I had treated myself. I wondered if he also knew that if I had thrown myself into my work, it was to assuage my grief.

"I shall meet you in the hotel lobby tomorrow morning," he said. "Now we had better leave here separately tonight." Instead of turning toward the door, however, he stood immobile, his gaze fixed on my face. "If, that is, my plan appeals to you."

I took a moment to reflect, although I had already made my decision long before. Finally I nodded.

A tension that I had not even noticed seemed abruptly to leave him. Suddenly I realised that for all the poise of his external appearance, Holmes had been terrified - terrified at first that I would not come, then that I would not forgive him.

"Good night, Holmes," I said with a smile.

An answering smile crossed his face. "Good night, Watson," he said and then left.

I remained seated for a few minutes alone, deep in thought. It was all very well for Holmes to say he had every confidence in me, but I had already made a fool of myself once today and almost given us away. His talk of mysterious dangers did not really help.

I shook myself. I was being foolish. I had often proven myself capable in the past and I knew I could do so again.

Then suddenly it struck me. Holmes was alive without a doubt!

Had anyone come into the room at that moment, they would have wondered what there was in that dark, gloomy place to inspire the ridiculous grin on my face.

.. .. ..

A/N: So, Oslo was actually called Christiania at the time, which I didn't realise before... :S

Next chapter: more adventures for Holmes and Watson, inspired by some weird and wonderful prompts.


End file.
